The Bat Is Out Of The Bag

I got this far.

I got to day four. That’s got to be some sort of record.

“What’s that,” Tracey squinted at me this morning. She’d frozen mid-step on her way through the kitchen to the bathroom.

“What’s what?” I asked, sipping my coffee and pretending I didn’t understand.

I did. I understood exactly what she was asking.

“On your face,” she added pointedly, her eyes wide with horror. “Are you growing a moustache?”

“No,” I assured her. “I’m not growing a moustache.”

“You are!” she exclaimed. “You’re growing a moustache. I hope you don’t like sex.”

Let’s be clear. A moustache is heavy with meaning in this house. And I mean it’s anvil heavy with meaning. It means no likey. It means no kissing. It means no nooky. It effectively means no touching. And lots of head shaking.

Like Bruce Willis in Armageddon, I really do feel I’m making the ultimate sacrifice here.

Which is why I’ve come up with what I think is the perfect plan: the most brilliant rebranding since water came to our shelves marketed as Perrier.

“No,” I insisted, “I’m not growing a moustache. I’m growing a… Batstache!” I wiggled my eyebrows in what I hoped was a hypnotic manner. “And it will be awesome.”

She’s bound to love it.

I looked at her face.

Well not straight away, of course, but, you know, when it kicks in and she sees it in all it’s Batnificence.

Why a Batstache? Because Batman.

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“Raising a family on little more than laughs”

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